Frieda Klein 2 - Tuesday's Gone (34 page)

‘I took the cat, you know.’

‘Yvette told
me.’

‘When Janet Ferris killed herself, she
didn’t feed it or leave the window open. Before you say it, I know she was of
unsound mind, but it doesn’t feel right to me.’ Karlsson waited and Frieda
drew a deep breath. ‘I am not sure that she killed herself.’

‘You saw her, Frieda.’

‘I think she was killed.’

‘If I was your therapist –’

‘Why do people keep saying that to
me?’

‘– I would say that perhaps you need
to believe she didn’t take her own life because then you wouldn’t feel so
responsible for her death.’

‘I’ve thought of that, of
course.’

‘You’re upset, this has been a
traumatic experience. But tell me, why on earth would anyone kill Janet
Ferris?’

‘She died after the article came out
in the paper.’

‘Exactly,’ said Karlsson.
‘And you know what that does to you.’

Frieda took the folder out of her bag,
pulled out the
Daily Sketch
and pointed to the paragraph. ‘She says here
that Robert Poole told her things, confided in her. If whoever killed him read that,
they’d be worried. Wouldn’t they?’

Karlsson sighed heavily. ‘I
don’t know, Frieda. I don’t know what they’d think.
I
think
you’re barking up the wrong tree.’

‘If someone killed Janet, I want to
help find them.’

Karlsson put his mug down. ‘Think
about it, Frieda. Dean hanged himself, and you think he’s still alive. Janet
Ferris killed herself and you think someone murdered her. Do you see a
pattern?’

‘Two events don’t make a
pattern.’

Frieda glared at him and got up abruptly,
the chair scraping the tiles.

‘Where are you going
now?’ he asked. ‘You haven’t touched your coffee.’

‘Now I’ve seen you, I’m
going to Margate.’

Margate was where Dean and Terry had gone
on holiday each summer, for ten days, taking his mother June until she’d needed
too much care. Frieda had read that in Joanna’s book,
An Innocent In
Hell
. She had noted down the places they liked to visit: the beach, of course, and
the old funfair with its wooden rollercoaster. The shell grotto, the arcades. Joanna had
written that Dean always bought humbugs from the old-fashioned sweetshop. Dean and his
mother June had a sweet tooth: Frieda remembered the doughnuts he always used to bring
to June Reeve, in their greasy brown-paper bag.

It was windy and wet when she arrived in the
town. Not many people were on the streets, and the beach was practically empty, bits of
paper and plastic blowing across it. She pulled her coat tighter around her and, putting
her head down, walked swiftly to the B&B Joanna had mentioned, which was set back
from the beach, with a sea view only from its top floor.

The man who came to the door had a livid
birthmark covering one side of his face and was wearing a dressing-gown over his
clothes. Frieda could hear the television in the next room, and smell meat frying.

‘We’re not open. It’s out
of season.’

‘I was hoping you could help
me.’ Frieda had thought about what she was going to say, and decided it was best
to be straightforward. ‘I wanted to ask you about Dean Reeve.’

A strange expression crossed both halves of
the man’s divided face, furtive and assessing.

‘Who are you?’

‘I’m Dr
Klein,’ said Frieda, hoping the medical tag would be enough. ‘Is it true
that Dean Reeve stayed here?’

‘I’m not sure I’m wanting
that to get around. Might put people off. Then again, it might encourage
them.’

‘How often did he come?’

‘Ten years,’ he said promptly.
‘Every July. Him and his wife and his old mother.’

‘When did you last see him?’

‘Must have been the July
before … before he died.’

‘Not after?’

‘How could it be after?’

‘This might sound like a strange
question, but you haven’t met his brother, have you? They look – looked –
identical.’

The man peered at her. ‘Why would I
meet his brother?’

‘I thought he might have come here.
Out of interest. His name is Alan Dekker.’

‘Never heard of him.’

‘You’ve never even seen someone
who reminded you of Dean?’

The man shook his head. ‘The thing is,
he was always all right with me. Helped me mend the shower. I always thought there was
something wrong with her, though.’

‘Her?’

‘The old woman.’

‘But his brother never
came?’

‘I told you.’

Frieda went through the town to the shell
grotto that Joanna had written about so enthusiastically – an underground labyrinth
whose every inch was lined with shells, in patterns and stripes and studded spirals. It
made her feel slightly nauseous. But Dean had loved it here, said Joanna. He’d
been obsessed
with it. So she asked the woman at the desk, selling
little boxes made of shells and postcards featuring shells, the same questions she had
asked the man who ran the B&B.

‘I don’t know who you’re
talking about,’ answered the young woman. She had an Australian accent.

Frieda took a piece of paper from her pocket
and unfolded it. ‘That’s the man I’m talking about.’

The girl smoothed it out and held it close
to her face, then away from her, frowning. ‘No,’ she said.

‘You’re sure?’

‘Course I’m not. Hundreds of
people come through here. He could have done. I wouldn’t remember.’

Frieda walked back along the beach. The tide
was coming in, little waves licking their way up the shore. An old man was the only
other person she could see: he had a small, scruffy dog running round and round him,
trying to get him to play, and every so often he stooped down very slowly, as if his
back was creaking, and picked up a stick to throw for it. Frieda stared out across the
grey, wrinkled sea and, for a moment, wished she was on a boat out there, alone and
surrounded by water and sky.

Frieda had a meeting at the clinic. She
arrived there early to go through her paperwork and catch up. Paz was on the phone,
talking to someone; her job at the Warehouse seemed to consist of long and animated
conversations with anyone who happened to call. Now she was waving her hands in the air,
gesticulating to whoever was on the other end, her bangles clattering on her wrist, her
long earrings swinging. She waved and made incomprehensible signs as Frieda passed.
Reuben was in his room, but his patient hadn’t arrived yet and Frieda put her head
round the door.

‘How are your knuckles?’ she
said.

‘We were just looking out for
you,’ he said.

Frieda closed the door. ‘Defending my
honour? What if he’d been carrying a knife? What if he’d fallen more heavily
and hit his head?’

‘We were doing what friends
do.’

‘You were drunk. Or on the way to
being drunk.’

There was a pause.

‘How’s the cat?’ he asked.
He was sucking a mint. He was back on the cigarettes, she thought; him and Karlsson
both.

‘He woke me up at three by biting my
toe. Also he’s eaten my jasmine plant and pissed in one of my shoes. Do you know
anything about housetraining a cat?’

‘No.’

‘I’ve asked Josef to put a cat
flap in my door.’

‘Good idea. There’s a woman in
your office.’

‘I’m not expecting
anyone.’

‘She looks a bit
odd, like a toad.’

Frieda walked down the corridor and opened
her door. For a moment, she didn’t recognize the woman who was sitting on the
chair, her short legs curled under her, wearing a mustard-yellow scarf wrapped round her
grey hair.

‘Hello, Dr Klein.’

‘Hello.’

‘Or can I call you Frieda?’

‘Whatever.’ She looked more
closely and suddenly she knew. ‘You’re Thelma Scott, aren’t
you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Sorry I was slow to recognize you.
When I last saw you, you were sitting in judgement over my treatment of Alan Dekker.
You’ll understand that I found the hearing rather intimidating.’

‘Of course.’

Frieda suddenly felt so weary and dispirited
she could hardly bring herself to speak. ‘What is it now,’ she asked.
‘Is there a new complaint?’

Thelma took a tabloid from her bag.
‘Have you read today’s paper?’ she said.

‘I don’t read
newspapers.’

Thelma put reading glasses on and opened it.
‘“Shrink in street brawl”,’ she read. ‘There’s a
picture of the photographer. It probably looks worse than it really is. “Friends
of controversial therapist Dr Frieda Klein set on press photographer, Guy
Durrant …” Well, I don’t need to read the whole article out.’

‘I’d rather you
didn’t.’

‘I suppose the report is broadly
accurate.’

Frieda took the paper from Thelma’s
hands and looked at it. The story was written by Liz Barron again. She handed the paper
back. ‘Broadly,’ she said.

‘Who were the
friends?’ said Thelma.

‘I’ve just come out of the
office of one of them,’ said Frieda, pointing behind her.

‘Reuben?’ said Thelma.
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake.’

‘I know.’

‘Are you all right?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I don’t pay much attention to
gossip,’ said Thelma, ‘but I heard a story about you a year or two ago. It
involved a colleague of mine and a fight in a restaurant in Kensington. It was probably
exaggerated.’

‘I ended up in a police cell,’
said Frieda.

‘I notice he didn’t press
charges. There was probably a reason for that.’

‘Yes, there was. Look, is this some
disciplinary issue?’

Thelma looked puzzled. ‘If you mean,
do I endorse public fighting by accredited psychotherapists – or even between accredited
psychotherapists – then the answer is no.’ Thelma stood up. She was several inches
shorter than Frieda. ‘I came because I was worried about the pressure on
you.’

‘That’s very kind of you, but
this really isn’t the best time, Dr Scott.’

‘I just wanted to make sure you were
clear about the BPC hearing. You weren’t reprimanded. You weren’t censured.
I hope you understand that.’

‘You came all the way here to tell me
so? Thank you. That’s a kind gesture.’

Thelma studied her closely.
‘I’ve looked you up,’ she said. ‘I’ve read some of your
work. It’s not entirely a battle, you against the rest of the world.’

‘I know. I’ve got a few people
with me. I mean in my battle against the rest of the world.’

Thelma pushed a hand into the pocket of her
donkey
jacket and pulled out Underground tickets and then a business
card. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘If you need someone to talk to some
time.’

‘Frieda thinks Janet Ferris was
murdered,’ said Karlsson. ‘Might have been murdered.’

Yvette took the coffees from a tray and
passed them around the table. She looked at Jake Newton, who had spent the last couple
of days assessing human-resource management. ‘Did you want one?’ she
said.

He looked at the mugs as if they were a part
of his evaluation. Chris Munster tore a sachet of sugar and tipped it into his.

‘No,’ Newton said. ‘No. I
think I’ll pass on that.’

Yvette took packets of sandwiches from a
plastic bag. ‘Cheese and celery for you, boss. Tuna and cucumber for you,
Chris.’ She tossed the packets across the table. ‘Chicken for me.’ She
looked at Newton. ‘Sorry. I didn’t know you were coming.’

‘I’m just a fly on the
wall,’ said Newton. ‘You don’t need to feed me.’

‘Flies on the wall still have to
eat,’ said Yvette. While Newton looked puzzled by that, as if he was trying to
work out whether there was an insult behind it, she continued, ‘Is Frieda coming
to the meeting to explain her theory?’

‘She’s seeing patients this
afternoon,’ said Karlsson.

‘How does the arrangement with her
work?’ said Newton.

‘Good question,’ said
Yvette.

‘This isn’t really the time or
the place,’ said Karlsson, ‘but she receives a small retainer and she is
entitled to expenses. None of which she has actually claimed. But I can provide you with
details later, if you want.’

‘Thanks,’ said Newton.
‘I’d like that.’

‘She is also
entitled to confidentiality,’ continued Karlsson, ‘which, unfortunately, she
did not get when someone in this building leaked details of the investigation to the
press.’

‘Whoops,’ said Newton,
cheerfully.

‘Nor did she receive proper
support,’ added Karlsson, staring at Yvette, who turned pink and dropped her
gaze.

‘So,’ said Munster, ‘why
does Frieda think Janet Ferris was murdered?’

‘It’s partly an instinct,’
said Karlsson. ‘She felt that Janet Ferris wasn’t in a suicidal frame of
mind. She should really be here to put her own case, but she said it was partly based on
an assessment of her mood. Also, she had left her cat locked in. She didn’t seem
the sort of woman who would do that.’

‘I guess that the point about being
suicidal,’ said Yvette, ‘is that you don’t worry about things like
that any more. If you want to look after your cat, you don’t kill yourself. Have
they done the autopsy yet?’

‘I just got off the phone with
Singh.’

‘And?’

‘He said that death was caused by
asphyxia. That and the state of the body …’

‘What do you mean “state of the
body”?’ asked Newton.

‘You don’t want to know,’
said Yvette.

‘She shat herself,’ said
Munster.

‘Really?’ Newton’s
eyebrows went up.

‘Loosening of the sphincter is a
feature of hanging,’ said Karlsson. ‘As it is of other forms of death. It
wasn’t so much the evacuation of the bowels as the, er …’ He made a
gesture with his hands.

‘The disposition,’ Yvette
supplied.

‘The splatter,’ added
Munster.

‘Please,’ said Karlsson.
‘Singh said there were no signs of any other injury, no bruising on her body. So,
he said his view
was that the death was a suicide. I asked him if he
was sure Janet Ferris hadn’t been strangled before she was hanged. He said one
could never be sure. I asked him if it was possible that she was hanged forcibly. He
said it wasn’t
im
possible, but in that case he would have expected
bruising, perhaps on the upper arms, and there wasn’t any.’